Worn
by RememberingDuo
Summary: Pre-Senshi. AU. "I do not believe you understand what I am saying. Your daughter, who has never come to my apartment or asked for any sort of help before, showed up at my door this afternoon looking as if she had been beaten."


**Discalimer: I do not own Sailor Moon, and I do not make any profit from this story.**

**A/N: This is pre ... everything. The Outer Senshi have not met up yet. This story and any sequels will contain abuse and homophobia/homophobic slurs. I've taken liberties with family names. And spellings. And... liberties with liberties.**

**Also, the only Japanese you're likely to find from me are the names; I'm not going to attempt an "san" or "kun" or any of that because I'll screw it up and no. **

* * *

**Worn**

Yoshida Kiku's white blouse is sheer at the slope of her shoulder; laid to cold, damp waste in the wake of bitter, desperate tears.

Against her ear, the phone echoes the ring of the other side.

Her kitchen reflects her seventy-four years; walls covered in faded yellow wallpaper adorned with dulled bronze flowers, slowly peeling away from the paneling dying beneath. The sole window above the sink is clouded behind aged white miniature curtains that split in two; the small off-white table in the center of looks as if it were taken from a side-road diner that had seen better years before coffee stains and cigarettes; the permanently tarnished floor offers the eye no reprieve from the elderly yellow.

She waits for an answer.

She can still hear the quiet catches of breath from her living room, attempting to be quiet. She pretends they are, as she had pretended for so long that the vivid, angry bruises on the otherwise flawless skin of girl next door were not really there. And then a startling, timid, broken knock –

A click. The line picks up.

"_Hello?"_ An older male voice reverberates from the speaker. She glances at her clock, round and wooden and the only spark of young color in the room. 3:40.

"Hello." Her voice is quiet; polite. The small grief from the other room doesn't stumble or hesitate – the call isn't heard. "Is this the Tenoh residence?"

"_This is Tenoh Hikaru,"_ the gruff voice replied. _"With whom am I speaking?"_

"My apologies. My name is Yoshida Kiku. I believe I live next door to your daughter – Tenoh Haruka?"

The silence on the other line is almost deafening.

"I am calling on behalf of your daughter," she explains quickly. "This afternoon she came to my door in tears, covered in bruises. I believe there may have been some sort of fight."

She waits, hearing heavy breathing as a chorus in her ears.

"…_And?"_ The man demands impatiently; it's not the response Kiku is expecting.

"Mr. Tenoh," she starts slowly, "I do not believe you understand what I am saying. Your daughter, who has never come to my apartment or asked for any sort of help before, showed up at my door this afternoon looking as if she had been beaten."

"_Then it is no less than she deserves_."

The reply is so prompt and blunt that, for that moment, she is unable to form any words, her mouth gaping like a fish as her heart thunders once; twice; three heavy times.

"Mr. Tenoh," she tries again, "I have reason to believe that Haruka may be in an abusive relationship with her partner-" but the man cuts her off.

"_Ms. Yoshida, whatever falls on Haruka, she brings upon herself. She chose to become a…lesbian, and these are the consequences that she will have to face and live with because of her choice. I am quite certain that the woman she is living with has bruises of her own to match; Haruka would know where to hit so that the marks wouldn't be seen. This is not her first time having problems."_

"M-Mr. Tenoh! Hones-."

"_Haruka has made her choices, I and my family have washed our hands of her until she comes to her senses. Now, Ms. Yoshida, I am a very busy man. I bid you a good day, and please. Do not call this number in regards to that girl again."_

Another click. The dial tone flatlines in her ear as if the plug had been pulled, and she slowly lets it fall away, staring at the aged white paint in uncomprehending silence. Its cord swings helplessly at the movement, grazing the chipped fake tile of her floor, tapping lightly against a thin white sneaker that hadn't been there before.

Desperate, Kiku looks up, an excuse on her lips that fades at the empty, tear-burning cerulean eyes staring at the phone in her hand. The bruises decorating Haruka's arms and neck stand out more vibrantly beneath her yellowed kitchen light than they had the lamps of the other room. She feels sick.

"I can call the police," she offers, but it's hollow. The police will do nothing for this. "Or anyone else – another relative, maybe? A friend perhaps?" This girl is a stranger to her, but she knows the answer before it's given. She looks back at her small clock as Haruka's golden head slowly, cautiously shakes.

3:42


End file.
